


Rare and Sweet as Cherry Wine

by Goddessofpredators



Series: Infinity War ficlets [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Goats, M/M, Post-Black Panther (2018), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Slice of Life, So much fluff you could stuff a pillow with it, a gaggle of mischievous kids, old McBucky had a farm, the Wakandan countryside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14992178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddessofpredators/pseuds/Goddessofpredators
Summary: "Steve,” Bucky says, finally, and takes the last few steps towards Steve to reach out and grip him in a bone crushing embrace. Jesus, but if the sound of his name in that voice, so close and real and there, doesn't makes Steve weak in the knees.Or: Steve visits Bucky, and they find themselves again.





	Rare and Sweet as Cherry Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sergeant17thstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sergeant17thstreet/gifts).



> This was based off of a wonderful prompt I got, which was supposed to be a ficlet and then grew legs and ran away from me. Thank you to sergeant17thstreet for the prompt! I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

He’s there when they wake him.

Watches with bated breath as the glass slides open with a hiss, bathing the floor in steam from the thaw. Behind that steam, inside the tank, stands the outline of a man, and after a pause from that man comes a ragged inhale.

Steve moves forward before Bucky’s eyes are even open, clutches him against his chest when he comes stumbling out of the tank and into Steve's arms.

Bucky shivers, teeth chattering and dripping wet, yet holds on to the back of Steve's jacket with the strength of a vice. Steve grips him back with the same raw intensity; there are still people in the room, he knows, watching. Probably waiting for them to get on with it so they can look Bucky over.

He doesn't care.

Let them see, he thinks in the same moment he nuzzles his nose into Bucky's damp hair and breathes him in- he's been waiting half his goddamn life for this, they deserve to take their time.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky rasps, hot breath against Steve's neck. Solid and real.

Steve rests a hand against the base of Bucky’s skull, touches his lips to Bucky's temple and hopes it says everything he could never put into words, _I'm here, I'm with you, I won't leave you, not again._

_I’m yours._

***

He's there when Shuri drags Bucky down to her lab not long after and sticks electrodes to his head to take a peek inside.

Bucky keeps Steve's hand clenched in his own the whole while, giving it a squeeze from time to time like he's making sure Steve's still really there. Steve squeezes back, lets him know he's not going anywhere and sends him a soft smile that Bucky returns, albeit slightly strained.

Shuri taps at the monitor in front of her; her tongue sticks out a little when she's concentrating, and Steve can't help but smile at the soft innocence of it.

“Well,” she speaks up after a moment, turning to look Bucky in the eye. “It looks like everything is progressing at it should be. Your brain is still in the process of healing, so some things may be a little fuzzy around the edges for a while, but I expect your memories to be more or less whole in the next coming months.”

Bucky licks his lips, flickers his eyes between her and Steve. There's a hesitancy in them, like he's sure all of this is just too good to be true and he’s waiting for the rug to slip out from under his feet.

“So it's done then? All of it, the programming, the triggers, it's all gone?”

“Pretty much. Your memories from your time with HYDRA are still intact- I couldn't completely remove them without risking removal of something vital to your identity, brains are a tricky thing like that- but as of now they have about as much a hold on you as the memory of what you ate for breakfast this morning.”

She says it flippantly, like it's not this monumental thing, like she hasn't single handedly freed him from his metaphorical shackles and given him a new chance at being himself again. Like she hasn't granted him a life.

But when she meets Bucky's eyes she has a soft look to her face that makes her seem older than she is, wise beyond her years. She takes Bucky's rough hand in her own smaller one, both calloused by their work.

“Congratulations, Sergeant Barnes. You're free; the only one who will ever have control over your mind from now on is you and you only.”

Bucky opens his mouth like he's going to respond, and then the weight of her words hits him full force and he pauses, closes it and swallows hard, stunned. Steve catches the way his eyes well up for a split second before he blinks it away, sniffs once and clears his throat.

Steve's getting a little choked up himself; he's spent so long fighting for Bucky, for this, that the thought of him finally being well and truly _free_ feels as surreal as the hyper futuristic lab they're standing in.

There's still hope for him, for them. For a life together, maybe, someday.

“Bucky,” Bucky corrects a beat later once he's composed himself, tipping up the corners of his lips in a smile; a real one, not a pinched facsimile meant to placate when he felt like doing anything but smiling at all. “Thank you.”

They're tiny words, but they hold the whole world in the way they curve off of Bucky's tongue.

Shuri scoffs, but her eyes glimmer with warmth.

“Like it was hard,” she says with a flap of her hand. “But, you're very welcome. Now, shoo, I have work that needs to be done and I can't cater to the two of you all day.”

***

He’s not there when Bucky gets moved into his new accommodations, too busy tracking down the next common crook who thought buying reassembled alien tech off of the black market would do them some good.

He gets a virtual tour a few weeks later on one of the rare days he allows himself to take a breather instead, courtesy of the ridiculously high tech beaded bracelet Bucky’d been gifted for communicational purposes.

(He'd called Steve first thing the day he'd gotten it, going on for hours and hours about how amazing the technology there was- _“It's got a camera built into the beads, how amazing is that?”_

Steve'd barely understood a word coming out of his mouth, but he'd lost himself in the sweet honey timbre of Bucky's voice and grinned his way through the whole conversation, high off of Bucky's excitement and joy.)

“-That’s the bathtub,” Bucky’s saying as he aims the camera in the direction of a sturdy looking wooden trough. “You have to hand fill it, boil the water and throw it in and everything.”

Steve grunts a little noise in the back of his throat.

“Just like the good old days, huh?” He teases, pictures the squat little tub that'd doubled as a dining room table in one of the first matchbox apartments they'd lived in together as vividly as if he'd last seen it yesterday.

The video feed shudders a little, then flips, giving Steve a full view of Bucky’s face as he levels Steve with a Look and then glances away to move around to the other side of his hut.

“At least I have a real table this time,” he mumbles and pans the camera back around to show off the little circular table pulled up near the hearth of his small fireplace, flanked on both ends by two chairs.

Steve cracks a grin, chuckling.

It's a nice little set up, honestly. Warm and cozy and uncramped; he's only been there a few weeks but Steve can already see little bits of Bucky taking over in the way he throws his shirts over the backs of his chairs and leaves his shoes near the door.

Little things, but they show a level of comfort and familiarity Steve hasn't seen in him since before the war, untainted by the horrors to come and untouched by endless guilt. It stirs something warm in the pit of his gut, to see Bucky put his trust in this place so easily where he never could before.

“Here's the bed,” Bucky says, jarring Steve from his thoughts. He toes at a little pallet on the floor, unmade and messy in a way Bucky never would have left his bed before. It looks comfortable enough.

Steve thinks back to his mattress on the floor in Bucharest and wonders if Bucky has the same problem with beds that he does, if he too feels like he's going to sink straight through the padding and springs and wake up on the ground. Maybe he prefers the rough dirt beneath his back.

“That where the magic happens?” Steve teases and grins at the glare Bucky sends his way.

“Don’t know where you’d get _that_ idea. I barely have enough energy to eat dinner before I pass out on a good day.”

“They workin’ you hard?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“Nah, nothing I can't handle. It's nice, you know, the work. They've got me herding goats.”

“Goats?”

“Mhmm. And chickens.”

“Well, aren't you just a bona fide farmer boy?”

Bucky snorts.

“I wouldn't go that far. I barely know jack-shit about what I'm doing half the time, I'm really just making it up as I go.”

Steve laughs, and Bucky can't help but crack a smile too.

“You've gotta be doing something right,” Steve says a beat later, “Considering they haven't made you stop yet.”

“Mm, maybe,” Bucky hums. “Gives me something to do, at least, makes me feel less like a useless lump.”  
  
Steve snorts. “Oh yeah, because how _dare_ you waste your rest time by being useless, right?”

Bucky pauses, gives him another Look. Even through the screen it feels like he's glaring into Steve's very soul. The longer he stares the more uncomfortable Steve gets, and he fidgets, tries to shift his eyes away.

“Bucky-”

“No.”

“Buck.”

“No, no, please, continue to lecture me on how I should spend my time, Mr. I’ll Only Rest When I’m Six Feet Under The Ground.”

“I rest!”

Bucky squints at him.

“Mhmm,” he hums, “And is that before or after Romanoff and Wilson chain you to your bedpost?”

“They don't _chain me_ to my _bedpost_ , Bucky. I'm perfectly capable of letting myself relax every now and then, thank you.”

“Beating the next baddie of the week into a pulp doesn't count as relaxing, Steve.”

Steve sighs, and Bucky nibbles on his lip, ducks his head; he's not exactly wrong though, and he knows it just as well as Steve does.

“I just worry about you,” he amends.

Steve sits up a little more at that, watches Bucky with those big sad doe eye of his. Bucky gives him a rueful little smile through the screen, so close and yet so far Steve's whole being aches with it.

“One thing I could never get rid of; you, running around out there and givin’ me stress ulcers even when I couldn't remember my own name.”

That startles a little laugh out of Steve, and Bucky chuckles a little through his nose, turns his head to the side and let's his gaze wander. Steve's eyes roam his profile and he itches to immortalize it in charcoal and graphite- the soft curve of his ear, the slope of his lips, the delicate freckles peppered across his nose, brought newly to the surface of his skin by the suns shining rays- even though he hasn't picked up a pencil in years; something about Bucky brings it out in him- he's always and forever Steve's endless muse.

“So,” Bucky rasps a second later and turns back to the camera, then flips the view and pans around the interior of his hut one last time before settling it on himself again. “What’d’ya think? Yay? Nay? Somewhere in between?”

Steve watches him for a moment, catches the glimmer in his eyes, the glow in his cheeks. Sees how far he's come from where he'd started, sees the life he's only just begun, the confident way he carries himself with his head held high- nothing can bring him down, not again. Steve sees _him_ , and he smiles in a way he never thought he would again before they found each other.

“I think it's great, Buck,” he says, and means every word of it so fiercely it's like a fire raging in his bones. “I think it's really great.”

***

There's a lull in activity for a while, and Sam and Natasha get so fed up with the way Steve's been sulking around with nothing to do that they practically kick him out of the safe house with nothing more than the clothes on his back.

“You need to take some time for yourself,” Natasha says one morning over a bowl of oatmeal. “It'll do you good, and you know it.”

Steve huffs into his spoon, but he can't deny it, that little itch niggling in the back of his brain. The calls aren't enough anymore; he needs something real to touch, something solid. He goes to sleep at night with his arms aching to wrap around a familiar waist and wakes up with the taste of Bucky's name on his tongue more often than not. He's not subtle about it, he knows. It's in the air he breathes, it drips from his pores- he misses Bucky like a hole in chest and no amount of ignoring it or throwing himself into his work will patch it up.

Nat took one glance at his face and knew instantly, and she and Sam have been bugging him about it ever since.

“We’re not going to spontaneously combust if you're gone for a few days,” Sam had said. “We’re responsible adults, we can handle ourselves.”

Nat had shot him a playful little look, but she’d agreed to keep Sam in check over his indignant squawk. Steve’d just smiled and shaken his head, said it wasn't time yet.

“Will it ever be?” Natasha asked with a glint in her eye that said she saw right through him.

He hadn't responded. Said he had a duty to his team next time they asked, to the people, and he couldn't carry it out if he wasn't there in the first place. It's a flimsy excuse and he knows it- truthfully, he's scared.

Terrified, really, of the possibility of rejection. Of being unneeded. Bucky's fine on the phone, but there's a difference in seeing someone through a screen and face to face, and Steve's afraid that's where the line will be drawn; that Bucky’ll take one look at him in the flesh and find that he's not good enough for some reason or the other. It stupid, Steve knows in the logical side of his mind- it's not in Bucky’s nature at all, not even when he was a five foot four beanpole with a list of ailments as long as his leg- but it doesn't stop the _what if’s_ and the doubt, or that sinking dread of looking Bucky in the eyes and seeing nothing there all over again like some kind of horrible déjà vu. He doesn't know if he could take it again, having Bucky so close but not actually _having_ him at all.

“You're thinking too much,” Natasha says, flinging Steve's poor little train of thought right off of the tracks, and then tacks on a little, “Again.”

Steve sighs, stuffs the last bite of his food in his mouth and stands to place the bowl in the sink.

“This is why you need a vacation,” she calls after him. She finishes up her oatmeal and joins Steve by the sink, letting him rinse off their dishes while she makes herself a glass of water. “It'll get you out of your own head. C’mon, fresh air, sunshine, some time to actually _relax_.”

“I relax,” Steve grumbles to the bowls, parroting back what he'd said to Bucky all those months ago and studiously ignoring Natasha’s raised brow. He needs new friends, one who won't force him to do things like _rest_.

“Steve,” Sam chimes in when he walks into their tiny little kitchen, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “Dude, I'm sorry, but if I have to watch you mope around here with those big, sad puppy dog eyes of yours for one more day, I might actually lose it. You're like the personification of a little gray storm cloud. It's making _me_ sad just looking at you.”

“Sam’s got a point,” Natasha agrees, because nothing is fair, ever. “You need to lighten up, Steve. The world isn’t going to come crashing down into mayhem if you let yourself be happy.”

Steve chews a little on the inside of his cheek, and Sam shifts, stands up a little straighter.

“You remember what I asked you way back when we first met?” He asks, and Steve knows right then and there what he's talking about. He smiles a rueful little smile.

“What makes me happy?”

“I think, at this point, it's safe to say we all know what the answer to that question is,” Sam says, and grins when Steve can't help but chuckle at it; it's not like it's not the truth. “Go get your boy, Steve. For _everyone's_ sake. You deserve it.”

Steve looks up then- looks at Sam and Natasha, sees their encouraging smiles and exhales a sigh through his nose. They're not wrong.

He's given enough, he thinks, he's allowed to be selfish now. The world can wait; Bucky's waited long enough.

He dips his head but it doesn't hide his little grin- not that he'd have to given that Sam and Natasha both can read him front to back like an open book.

“Alright,” he says, finally giving in, and nods. “If it'll get the two of you off of my back, then alright, I’ll go.”

Sam beams at him and Natasha sends him a soft smirk, reaches over to pat him on the shoulder.

“That's not the only reason why, but keep telling yourself that,” she says, and Sam barks a laugh at the way Steve turns five different shades of red and bats her hand away.

He calls up T’Challa later that night on his tablet to make arrangements; they get interrupted when Shuri shoves in behind T’Challa’s shoulder, taking up half the screen with wide, frantic eyes.

“Captain, thank Bast,” she says, urgency in her voice, and barrels over T’Challa’s hissed “Shuri!” before Steve can remind her that that's not him, not anymore, “You _need_ to come see your boyfriend; he's been sulking around like a lost puppy every time I visit and if I have to listen to him moan about how much he misses you _one more time_ I'm going to lose my mind! And lots of things depend on my mind! I can't lose it, it would be a tragedy- hey-!”

T’Challa nudges his way back into the center of the screen, shooing away a giggling Shuri who sticks her tongue out at him before prancing off.

T’Challa, only slightly harried, watches her go with a fond look in his eyes, then turns back to Steve with a half-sheepish grin. Steve's not doing any better, flushed red from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.

“We would be happy to have you, as you can clearly see,” T’Challa continues, ever graceful, and Steve returns his smile.

He's packed and on a quinjet headed their way after a lengthy farewell breakfast the next day. A promise is made to be back within the week, but Sam and Nat shake their heads, tell him to enjoy himself, so he takes their advice and decides to fuss over a return date another day.

He gets out of his seat once the ‘jet passes through the barrier holding Wakanda back from the outside world, moves to stand in the cockpit and watches in awe through the glass as the Golden City melts into view. It's something he'll never get tired of no matter how many times he sees it, just as breathtaking and grand now as it was when he first laid eyes on it, way back when

The ‘jet touches down outside the palace, and Steve's greeted by T’Challa when he departs with a duffel bag of his stuff slung over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Steve says, means it with every aching inch of his being, and reaches a hand out for T’Challa to shake. T’Challa takes it and offers a warm grin, one that Steve returns, then dips his head on a nod.

“I’m sorry I cannot walk with you today,” he says, but Steve shakes his head.

“Don't be. I'm sure you've got more important things to be doing than escorting me around.”

T’Challa chuckles through his nose, soft.

“The life of a king is one that doesn't allow for much time to myself,” he says with a carelessness that masks the fatigue in his voice, but his eyes shine bright and happy, say just how much he wouldn't trade it for the world, so Steve just smiles back. He knows how it feels, in a way.

“Abaeze will lead you down,” T’Challa continues, motioning towards a guard behind them who steps forward at the sound of his name. Steve nods to him, and he replies in same.

“I hope you enjoy yourself,” T’Challa says, and Steve grins at him, hefts his bag up higher on his shoulder and turns his head to look out over the city, squinting in the sunbeams that bounce off of shining architecture and into his eyes.

“I think I will,” he says, and means it.

Abaeze moves forward, and they leave T’Challa after a last goodbye to start the trek down to the little village that Bucky’s made his home. It's a good hour and a half of a walk, one that they fill up with polite small talk for one half and companionable silence for the other.

Steve lets his gaze wander, takes in the lush forest, the exotic wildlife, and finally lets himself _breathe_ for the first time in what feels like ages. He gets why Bucky must love this place so much- there's something about it, maybe something that flows in the air, that creates a calmness inside him and soothes his hurts like a loving mother. The land cares for its people just as much as its people care for it.

They reach the top of a rolling hill when the village comes into view down in the valley below, people milling around tiny as ants as they work and play. Steve squints, looks for a familiar head of tangled brown hair.

“I trust you can continue on your own?” Abaeze asks, and Steve turns to him, nods.

“I can. Thank you,” he says.

Abaeze nods back, offers a gentle ‘you're welcome’ and leaves the way they came, leaving Steve standing alone on the hilltop as he surveys the ground below him.

It takes a minute, but he finds him, eventually, walking along with another man as they talk and grin. The man says something that makes Bucky throw his head back, and Steve can all but imagine the gravelly sound of his laugh. It's heady, the thought that he'll be hearing it up close and personal soon enough.

The man glances up then, and he must catch a glimpse of Steve looming above them on the hill because he elbows Bucky in the ribs, says something and motions his head up in Steve's direction. Bucky swats at his arm but looks up anyway, and when his gaze catches on Steve he stutters in his steps, eyes going wide and mouth agape. They stay like that for a moment, eyes locked, watching, before Bucky finally peels himself away to say something back to the man he's walking with, who grins like a shark and responds with something that makes Bucky squawk and gently shove at his shoulder. The man cackles, adds one last things and turns to leave, waving at Bucky as he goes. Bucky waves back, and Steve can hear the distant sound of him yelling a farewell before he turns back in Steve's direction, starting the trek up the hill with a grin wide enough to split his cheeks in two.

The closer he comes the more Steve can see of him, baked golden by the sun and practically glowing despite the dirt caked and smeared all over his skin. It awes Steve just how brilliantly alive he looks, happy as a clam and vibrant in a way Steve doesn't think he's seen in decades. Maybe even ever.

Bucky reaches the top of the hill and stops a few feet away. They both allow themselves to stare for a moment, soaking each other in. Bucky's eyes look suspiciously shiny, but Steve can't say a thing about it, not with how close he feels to weeping with joy himself.

“Steve,” Bucky says, finally, and takes the last few steps towards Steve to reach out and grip him in a bone crushing embrace. Jesus, but if the sound of his name in that voice, so close and real and _there_ , doesn't makes Steve weak in the knees.

Steve grabs him just as tight, scrunches up the material of Bucky's shirt in his fists and holds him to his chest.

Bucky's face tucks into Steve's neck and Steve almost melts; he rests his forehead against Bucky's shoulder, blinks back the tears. Bucky rocks him in place, drags his blunts nails feather light up and down Steve's back and breathes him in.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve whispers, choked raw with emotion.

Bucky hums and nuzzles his nose against Steve's skin.

“I missed you,” he says softly, and Steve's voice cracks on a laugh because that doesn't even begin to encompass it, the dark void of space that's made its home inside of him until Bucky came to patch it up.

He still says, “Yeah, you too,” because it's still the truth, and he means every word.

They stand there a little longer before Bucky finally pulls his head back enough to speak clearly, but Steve can feel with the way Bucky's cheek gently brushes against his own that his grin never left his face.

“We’re not alone,” he murmurs with an undertone of fondness in his voice.

Steve lifts his head up to take a peak, and sure enough a little ways down the hill stand a gaggle of children, watching them with laugher on their lips as the stare and chitter amongst themselves. All at once Steve's brought back to reality, and he blushes from the roots of his hair down to his toes, giving Bucky a last hard pat on the back and then taking a step back to break the hug. They can finish their reunion later in private, without the prying eyes of the other villagers Steve admittedly forgot were there.

He clears his throat, uses the added distance to finally take a good look at Bucky up and down. He's gorgeous, always has been, but something about the sunshine and whatever is in the air has him practically glowing in a way a tablet screen just can't capture.

“You look… great,” Steve says- blurts, really, because he can't control himself.

Bucky snorts a laugh, smiles in the way that makes his eyes crinkle up in the corners like crows feet.

“You're not too shabby yourself,” he teases back. “I like the beard; didn't know you could grow one.”

Steve rolls his eyes, and all prior apprehension that may or may not have had to do with how good Bucky looks is instantly gone, replaced with their same age old banter like a day never passed between them.

“You're a funny guy,” Steve says, and Bucky beams.

Steve grins back, then gazes past him from over his shoulder, eyes wandering over the little village behind him.

“How’ve you been? You look like you've been busy,” he asks, looking back to Bucky and motioning at his dirt stained complection.

Bucky flicks his eyebrows up, glancing down at himself and giving a tiny shrug, _what can you do?_

“I've got my hands full,” he admits, looks at his hand and spreads his fingers. “Well, hand. But it's good, I'm outside all day in the sun and the fresh air, try to help where I can. And the people pay me in hot meals for the work, so that's nice."

Steve huffs a little laugh, smiling. “Sounds like you're enjoying yourself.”

Bucky goes red at that- like it's something to be embarrassed about, his happiness- but he plays it off, shrugging his shoulders with a playful little ‘eh’.

“Maybe just a little,” he teases, but the large grin on his face betrays him.

He catches the way Steve's eyes keep darting away towards the shape of the village below and motions his head for Steve to follow as he starts to make his way down the hill.

“What about you?” He asks a beat later when Steve falls in step beside him. “Heard you've been doing a little globe trotting with your entourage."

Steve scoffs with his whole face.

“Well, you know what they say, evil never rests,” he says, and doesn't bother to elaborate. Bucky knows enough, has heard the same rant a thousand times by now. _I'm just tired, Buck. I love it, I really do, but it never seems to end_.

Bucky casts him a look out of the corner of his eyes.

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't, either,” he says, ever the mother hen.

Steve can't help but smile at it and raises a brow. “Who says I don't? Why else do you think I'm here?"

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat, turning his affronted gaze towards Steve as he puts a hand to his chest.

“Wow,” he says, making a whole show out of it, “And to think I actually thought you came all this way to see _me_. I'm wounded, Steve, I really am."

Steve laughs, can't even put into words how _overjoyed_ he is to be able to tease and joke with Bucky like this again, and bumps Bucky with his shoulder. “I'm sure you'll survive.”

Bucky hums, gazing out over the large expanse of swaying green grass before them.

“Speaking of your entourage, how've they been?" He asks after a moment of silence.

“They're doing well,” Steve says, remembering the satisfied looks in both Sam and Nat’s eyes as they bade him goodbye from the doorway of their latest safe house. “No different from the last time you talked; more tired maybe, all the traveling’s wearing us all down, but they're trooping through it like they always do.” Steve pauses, then tacks on, “Sam told me to tell you he says hi, by the way."

That gets Bucky's attention, and he glances at Steve, raising a brow. He knows Sam too well at this point to take anything Steve relays to him with more than a grain of salt. Steve catches his gaze and gets a sheepish look on his face.

“Well,” he starts, stumbles a little, “He actually said to tell you to go fuck yourself, but I'm sure he meant it in a nice way.”

Bucky snorts.

“Of course he did. You tell him next time you see him that I said, I might only have one arm but I still have two feet to kick his ass with.”

A little laugh slips from between Steve's lips, but he nods, solemn and serious in every way Bucky knows he isn't. “Will do.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence. Steve lets his gaze roam, and after a moment he realizes they've veered off away from the direction of the village and are making their way instead towards what looks suspiciously like an animal pen.

“Where are we going?” Steve asks, and Bucky, now a few paces ahead, glances at him from from over his shoulder as he unlocks the padlock on the gate.

“I've got a few someone's I want you to meet,” he says, and leaves it at that.

He keeps the gate open for Steve and closes it back once Steve makes his way inside; Steve takes in the view, rests his hands on his hips.

“These are the goats?” He asks, eyes flickering over the little herd meandering around the pen without a care in the world.

“These are the goats,” Bucky confirms.

Steve watches them for a second longer; one of them is currently amusing itself with an old tire, butting it with the top of its head until it flips over or rolls off in another direction and then starting the cycle all over again.

“Are they all yours?”

Bucky shrugs a little, waves his hand in a so-so motion. “Sort of. They're the villages, really, but we all take turns caring for them.”

Steve nods, squats down when one of the smaller ones gets close and holds out his hand. It lips at his fingers and he grins.

“That's Induku,” Bucky introduces, waving a hand at the goat that's currently hogging all of Steve's attention.

Steve wiggles his fingers a little and Induku bobs his head along to try and catch them. It's sweet, until the goat succeeds and snaps at Steve's pinky with an almost triumphant bleat. Steve yelps, curses, and yanks his hand away, shaking it out as he makes his way back up to his feet. Bucky grins.

“Yeah,” he says, and he's got a glint in his eye that makes Steve think he was waiting for something like that to happen, “He’s a little shit.”

Steve gives him a Look, but Bucky's already moving on, bent over at the waist to scritch behind the ear of another little goat that had wandered up to nudge at his leg.

“And this one’s my princess, aren't you, little lady?” He coos. The goat bah’s, lifting its chin for Bucky to get a better angle. “Yeah, you like that, sweetheart, I know you do.”

He gives it a few more scratches and ruffles the top of its head when he's done, straightens himself back out to stand and stretches his arm up over his head with a groan. Steve watches him, lovestruck. Amazed in the way something so simple as Bucky glancing over his shoulder at him and beaming big and wide like Steve's the best thing he's ever seen can send his heart marching straight out of his chest. _Jesus_ , but he missed him.

Bucky wanders over to the side of the fence and reaches over to grab a bag of feed, then moves towards a large trough in the center of the pen, turning the bag upright and dumping the feed inside. The goats hear the noise and go running, and Bucky curses as he trips and shuffles his way out from the center of the ravenous pack to make his way back to Steve's side. He brushes the dirt off of his hand onto his pants.

“What does it mean?” Steve asks a second later while they watch the goats chow down, happy to take their fill and then some. Bucky gives him a questioning look, and Steve amends, “The goats name, Induku.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. He focuses his sights on the goat in question. “It means stick.”

Steve blinks. That's… not what he was expecting.

“You named your goat stick?”

Bucky shrugs.

“He's about as smart as one,” is all he says, and Steve flicks his brows and hums. He can't argue with that.

Bucky scratches at his head and glances around, tilts his head up and squints at the sun. It's starting to drop in the sky, tinting the whole village in an orange glow.

“It's almost dinner time,” he says, then glances down at himself and grimaces. “I need to go wash up, I smell like I've been rolling around with the goats for the past five hours.”

Steve makes a face at that, wrinkling up his nose. “Well, I _was_ going to say something, but I figured it'd be rude…”

Bucky rolls his eyes and turns to leave the pen, but there's a small mirthful grin ticking up the side of his mouth as he unlatches the gate and lets Steve out first. “Ha ha. Keep it up and you'll have your own stand up routine in no time.”

Steve knocks his hip against Bucky's own when Bucky gets up beside him and it makes Bucky huff a laugh through his nose and jab his elbow into Steve's arm. They continue it while they walk, pushing and shoving at each other like a pair of rowdy teenagers until Bucky grabs Steve in a solid headlock and refuses to let go until Steve cries uncle. Bucky slings his arm around Steve's shoulders instead and pulls him close, and Steve revels in the casual intimacy of it, winds an arm around Bucky's hips.

“We’ll be eating with some of the neighbors, by the way. Community dinners are big around here,” Bucky tells him once his little hut comes into view through a tall wall of grass.

Steve makes a little noise of agreement, nods. It'll be nice, he thinks- a peak into a life he'll never really know. Honored at being accepted into it, if even for a night or two.

He stops outside the doorway once they reach Bucky's hut and it makes Bucky, already reaching up to begin unbuttoning his filthy white shirt- Steve has to drag his eyes away from the first glimpse of curly hair sprinkled across the top of his chest- raise a brow.

“You want me to wait out here?” Steve asks, almost an explanation.

Bucky gives him a funny look, like Steve's crazy to consider the need for privacy in an open spaced hut that has almost none, then shrugs.

“Sure, if you want. I'll be out in a minute.” And then he's disappearing inside, letting the curtain covering the doorway swing closed behind him.

Steve stares at it for a minute before he jams his hands into his pocket and turns to get a good look at his surroundings. Trees, lush and plentiful, far more than he'd ever seen in the flesh in his childhood, sprout everywhere the eye can see. Steve cranes his neck up to glimpse their tops. There's a lake a few strides ahead, and Steve makes his way over to stand at its shore, looks down to watch the way the water laps at the tips of his shoes.

He can see why Bucky loves it here so much; it's picture perfect tranquility, a kind of unearthly beauty that makes it look like it jumped right out of a postcard, _wish you were here_. Steve could lose himself watching the clouds roll overhead, listening to the water splash and flow. He closes his eyes and lets a cool breeze brush over his cheeks and knock his hair out of place.

The breeze brings with it the sound of voices, and Steve cracks his eyes back open and glances off to the side to find a group of kids, the very same from earlier on the hill, watching him from between the trees with interest like he's a specimen to be studied. He probably is to them, with his foreign complextion.

He doesn't really know what to do, so he pulls a hand from his pocket and offers them a little wave. It makes some of the children giggle, turning to whisper to each other and make themselves laugh even more. Steve can't help but smile at them, remembers a time when even the simplest of things could be the most intriguing discovery. The kids observe him for a little longer until a voice calls them away and they scramble out from beneath the branches.

Steve watches them go, and when he looks over his shoulder he sees them scurrying towards an older woman seated near a recently lit firepit dug into the ground. There's a few other people milling about, pulling out chairs and stumps and carrying out what looks like food, vegetables and spices and raw meat. Bucky's neighbors, Steve guesses, preparing for their meal. He watches them set up for a moment before glancing back to Bucky's hut.

Bucky hasn't come out yet, and the longer he takes the more Steve worries he lost track of time and they'll be late to show. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, contemplating, and then starts back towards the hut.

More than likely he's already done and spending the majority of his time on his hair; he's always been vain about his looks, and Steve's seen him during their video chats, knows he's been spending the extra time to make himself look good just because he can.

Steve reaches the door and strains his ears, doesn't hear the sound of splashing or running water so he assumes it's safe and peaks his head inside.

And. That. Is a lot of skin.

Wet, naked skin.

Bucky, bent over and scrubbing his hair dry with towel, must hear Steve make a noise because he twists himself to look over his shoulder.

They lock eyes.

Steve's on fire, he can feel the way it burns his face, but he's frozen on the spot like a very unfortunate, embarrassed deer. Bucky, for his part, seems completely content in his nudity and straightens himself upright, not even bothering to wrap the towel around his waist as he makes his way to the other side of the hut to grab his clothes. Steve finally finds it in himself to slap a hand over his eyes.

It's nothing he hasn't seen before, he knows- nothing he doesn't want to see, and he _does_ , a shameful part of his brain and his gut hiss together. It's just not the right time, not when they haven't discussed it yet. Bucky's gone seven decades without the choice of privacy, Steve's not going to take that away from him again, even if he doesn't seem to mind.

And he really doesn't, Steve can practically hear the grin in his voice when he asks, “Are they getting things ready?” over the sound of rustling fabric.

Steve nods dumbly. Bucky snickers a little, and Steve's sure he's the shade of a cherry by now, damn his fair Irish skin.

“I'll be out in a moment,” Bucky says, and Steve nods again before he dashes away like his pants are on fire.

Bucky joins him like he said a few moments later, wrapped loosely in a bright red _shuka_ , a sky blue sling draped over the missing stump of his left arm. It brings out the grey in his eyes, makes them glow, brilliant and bright. He smirks at Steve when he sees him and Steve averts his eyes, cheeks back up in flames even after he'd just doused them out.

They make their way together towards the gathering near the fire pit; someone's hung up a large pot over the flame since Steve last glanced their way, and he can smell the knife sharp scent of spices and cooking meat in the air the closer they get. It makes his stomach rumble with a hunger he hadn't noticed until now.

Someone yells out a greeting when they get close enough, and Steve recognizes him as the man he'd seen Bucky with when he'd first arrived. Bucky breaks into a grin and says something back in a tongue Steve can't understand- he's been practicing the local language, Steve knows. He'd been the one Bucky had called every time he'd learned the correct pronunciation of a new word, and even still when he struggled to form his tongue around one at all.

They go back and forth like that for a minute- the man says something that makes Bucky flush red all the way to the tips of his ears, and Bucky snipes back with something that makes the man cackle like a hyena- before Bucky turns back to Steve and starts the introductions; Anathi- the man he'd just been speaking with- apparently the first friend Bucky had made and the only person who'd, at the beginning, been brave enough to walk up to the poor white man with his head half screwed on wrong and show him how to herd a goat the right way. A few of the elders, a couple who raised rhinos for a living (Steve can see the way Bucky's eyes light up as he says it, childlike excitement at the concept of meeting one of those great beasts face to face.), even the gang of mischievous children Steve had encountered before and their leader, a giggly little slip of a girl named Thembeka, whom Bucky fondly calls _uhlanga_ under his breath as she shrieks with laughter and tugs on his robes.

Steve greets them all back with a warm, genuine smile. He doesn't need to introduce himself- they know of him already, they say, giving Bucky a look that makes him blush and turn away. Steve looks to Bucky as well, but it's with a soft tint of wonder that Bucky's spoken enough of him for the locals to have learned his name.

He gazes at Bucky for a moment more before he and Bucky both are herded over to a pair of empty seats and handed wooden boards and knives. Bucky's tasked with dicing the vegetables for the stew and Steve with skinning the potatoes, so they both get themselves to work, falling silent for the time being as they focus on their jobs.

The noises around them are a nice soundtrack to work to; the crackle-pop of the fire, the bubble of the broth in its pot, the sound of someone humming along to a tune in their head. It reminds Steve of home, real home, the old sardine tin of an apartment he and Bucky had shared, with its drafty windows that let in even the slightest sounds from the streets below and the paper thin walls that let them know everything their neighbors were up to both morning and night.

It feels like family here, every smell and sound and casual touch, and Steve soaks it all in like sponge. Takes the feeling of Bucky beside him, the fabric of his _shuka_ brushing against his elbow with each shift of his body, and locks it up tight in the back of his mind to hold forever.

The children run around behind them, screaming and laughing to their little hearts content, and slowly, in the background, Steve hears the humming begin to multiply. It gets louder, and then there's a beat, someone using their legs as makeshift drums, and all at once several voices burst into loud song. It shocks Steve a little from the sheer unexpectedness of it, but quickly he finds himself grinning and tapping his foot along, pausing with his knife against the board to watch as several of the women and men sing and gently dance while they prepare the food, moving their bodies with the rhythm.

When Steve glances over to Bucky he sees a matching smile dancing on his lips as he finishes up with the vegetables, and when he lifts his head to look back at Steve he laughs, just a little bit, and the pure joy on his face is almost overwhelming.

A few of the children run over when Bucky stands to take his sliced vegetables and dump them into the pot, circling their tiny arms around his waist and tugging on his _shuka_ as they speak over themselves trying to get his attention.

“ _Ingcuka_ _Emhlophe_!” They repeat over and over, mixed in with whatever else they're saying to him.

Bucky grouses at them to calm down, but gives in to whatever they're asking and walks with them back to where Steve sits, discarding his knife and cutting board on the ground and out of their reach. He settles himself down on the grass instead of his chair and the children all pile around him, three running around to his back and the fourth, the youngest of the bunch, plopping down into Bucky's cross-legged lap while several of the other boys roughhouse off behind them.

The three girls behind him begin to card their fingers through his hair, one focused on pulling half of his hair up into bun while the other two twist elaborate braids near both of his temples. The boy in Bucky's lap entertains himself by squishing Bucky's cheeks between his chubby little hands, laughing himself silly when it makes Bucky's lips pucker up like a fish. He slaps at Bucky's cheeks a little, gently, and Bucky sucks them in and crosses his eyes, making the boy laugh that much harder.

Steve finds himself smiling too, so much so his own cheeks are aching with it. He hasn't seen Bucky with kids in so long, not since before his sisters grew up and playing games with their big brother wasn't cool anymore, but he's still a natural with them, calm and nurturing; he soothes the boy when he leans too far back and tips himself over, surprised tears brimming in his eyes from the tiny fall, instantly replaced with a beaming smile at the way Bucky bends over to blow raspberries at his stomach. Steve takes a mental picture and tucks that into his box for safekeeping, too.

He gets up once the potatoes are peeled and adds them to the stew as instructed, and it all goes pretty quickly after that. Bowls and utensils are passed out to each person, and once the stew is finished everyone lines up to take their fill. Bucky joins in behind Steve once the kids let him up; his hair is done up in a half bun, the braids at his temples draping back to tie into the knot. It's gorgeous, and it must show on Steve's face how much he thinks so because Bucky takes one look at him and blushes, glancing away.

They both step up one after the other and thank the woman who heaps a few spoonfuls of stew into their bowls (more than the others, Steve notices. They must know about Bucky's fast metabolism and assumed the same for him, of which they wouldn't be wrong.) then return back to their seats. They wait until everyone's got their servings, bow their heads to pray, and when it's done they all look up and dig in.

As expected, it's goddamn delicious. Steve almost moans outright when the first taste hits his tongue, and Bucky's gives him a look that says, _I know, right?_ Steve nods back to him and shoves another forkful into his mouth.

It's a quiet affair, most too busy feeding themselves to talk, but some of the elders pipe up with stories to pass the time and Steve listens to them with rapt attention. Bucky chimes in himself, tells of an incident he'd had with the goats earlier that week. The children giggle as he recounts it and offer up their own versions of what they saw, and the adults chuckle at their tales, humoring them.

Steve glances at Bucky after a beat, nudges him with his elbow.

“What were the kids calling you earlier?” He asks when Bucky turns his attention to him, curiosity piqued from the way he'd seen Bucky smile at the name.

Bucky's cheeks go red, just a little, and he huffs a laugh.

“White Wolf, apparently. At least, that's what Shuri says,” he responds.

Steve _‘awww’s_ , laughs when Bucky thwaps him with the stump of his arm. He can't help it; it's adorable, and accurate too, if he's being honest with himself. He knows he won't be letting Bucky live it down, that's for sure.

Anathi gets up a bit later and passes around a new bowl, this one filled with rice, and everyone takes a scoop. Bucky eyes Steve when he holds his plate out.

“It's hot,” he says, must have had it before, and Steve raises a brow, loads a fork and takes the bite like it's a challenge.

He almost spits it back out.

A distressed noise bubbles up from the back of his throat, but he forces himself to swallow it all down. It _burns_ , feels like it's scraping the roof of his mouth raw, and tears spring in his eyes as he waves a hand in front of his mouth. Everyone laughs, but Bucky most of all.

“Told you,” he teases, the bastard, and takes a bite of his own with minimal wincing.

“It's a lot of spice,” Steve says to no one in particular, and Anathi guffaws.

“A lot of spice, he says!”

“I'm Irish,” Steve gripes by way of explanation, “The only spice I grew up with was _salt_.”

It only makes everyone laugh all the more harder.

the rest of the dinner goes without incident, and Bucky and Steve stay behind to help clean up when everyone is finished, giving thanks for the meal when everything is done and one by one people begin disappear into their homes, bidding each other goodnight. Bucky ruffles Thembeka’s hair before she runs off to her mother and makes his way back to Steve's side.

The sun has all but fully set by now, and he and Steve end up sprawled out on their backs in the grass near the lake, gazing up at the moon and the stars.

The moonlight bounces off of Bucky's skin when Steve turns his head to look at him; he almost glows, a being not of this earth, made of stardust and galaxies weaved into his pores. Steve almost can't look away.

Bucky hums.

“you know one of the things I love about this place the most?” He asks a beat later, voice lazy and slightly slurred with relaxation.

“Hmm?”

“How well you can see the sky at night.”

Steve finds it in himself to break away his gaze and looks up. It's true; it feels like every last star, meteor and planet is lit up on display just for them like some sort of private intergalactic light show. He can see the Milky Way with perfect clarity, how it dwarfs them all. It makes him feel smaller than usual in his too big body, a tiny spec of dust lazily floating by in this larger than life universe. He blinks, and wonders how many other life forms must be gazing back at them at this very moment.

"I come out here, sometimes, when I can't sleep,” Bucky continues, breaking the soft blanket of silence that had fallen over them. “Try to see how many constellations I can find."

It makes Steve’s lips tick up a little, picturing it. Bucky'd always been fascinated with the idea of space, had dragged Steve up to the roof of their apartment building more than once to waste the night away under the open sky, challenging each other to see who could find the most constellations in the least amount of time. It tickles him a little, to think Bucky’s still settling himself under the stars all these years later and pointing them out from memory. He still remembers the book of constellations Bucky would always carry out with them, pages frayed and worn from years of being flipped through.

Steve turns his head, settling his eyes back on Bucky. All the stars in the world, and they'd never hold a candle to his shine.

“Does that happen often?” He finds himself asking; hypocritical, he knows, for all the grousing he does when anyone frets over his own wellbeing.

“What?”

“You not sleeping well.”

Bucky shrugs, rests his hand on his stomach.

“Not nearly as bad at it used to be,” he says, leaving it at that, and then adds, “Never say that princess isn't a miracle worker.”

Steve laughs a little through his nose, smiling.

“She's sure something,” he says, thinking back to the conversations, however few they've been, that they've had. “You two seem close.”

that makes Bucky grin, big and wide even though he tries to hide it.

“Yeah,” he says, voice dripping with fondness, “She comes down here a lot to check on me, or when she's bored and needs someone to pick on.”

Steve huffs another soft laugh.

“We find ways to pass the time,” Bucky says. He tilts his head to the side, focuses his eyes on Steve, and there's a lopsided smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “You know she spent a whole afternoon teaching me the dance to _Single Ladies_ by Beyoncé?”

Steve's brows raise. He'd liked to have seen that. “No shit?”

“I liked it so much I put a ring on it,” Bucky replies, face stoic.

It makes Steve bark out a laugh that's a little too loud for the time of night, and Bucky's smirk widens into a grin. It slowly falls into something gentler, warm and tender. He glances back up at the stars with glassy eyes, looking a thousand miles away at something Steve can't see.

“She reminds me of Becca,” Bucky says a few quiet moments later, words hushed.

It makes Steve ache a little deep inside; Becca’d been his sister too, in everything but blood. She and Bucky had been attached at the hip way back when, close as close could be right up until the war and the draft had ripped them apart. She's still alive, Steve had visited her not long before he'd mustered up the courage to visit Peggy, but she's not there anymore, not really. He doesn't know if Bucky'd been by to see her, if he'd snuck by before leaving the country three years and a lifetime ago. He doubts it. The wound would have been too fresh, it wouldn't do anything but damage if he had gone and poked it.

Bucky speaks of her now with nostalgia dripping off his words, a vague smile dancing on his lips as he compares her to the firecracker of a princess who'd become something of a sister to him herself.

“She's so passionate about what she loves; you get her started on something and she won't shut up about it until she's explained every little detail right down to the T,” Bucky continues, “And she's so happy all the time, it's infectious.”

“They would've gotten on like a house on fire, you know it,” Steve says, and Bucky snorts.

“Pal, they would've ruled the world. I’d’ve feared for our lives.”

“Remind me not to introduce her to Nat then.”

Bucky groans, eyes going wide with terror, and hisses a soft, “ _Jesus_ ,” at the mere thought. They'd be indestructible, no doubt.

“Kid’s smart as a goddamn whip. She'll make it to the top in no time, if she's not already there,” Bucky adds a beat later.

Steve “ _Mmm_ ”s in agreement, says, “I'm counting on it.” And he is, doesn't doubt she'll be running the world come the next few years.

They fall back into silence.

It's a few beats later when Bucky, in a whispered voice Steve almost doesn't hear, adds, “She’s making me a new arm, I think.”

Steve turns his head to get a better look at Bucky's profile; there's something in his voice, some quiet resignation, that makes a crease form between Steve's brows.

“Told me she's working on the design last time I saw her.”

“Is it something you want?” Steve asks.

Bucky furrows his brows and draws his lips into a thin line, conflicted at the thought.

“No,” he says first, quickly, then reels himself back in with a shocked look in his eyes like he hadn't meant to say it at all, and amends, “Yes.” He sighs, face pinched around the edges. “I don't know. Maybe. It'd make things easier.”

“But…?”

Bucky gnaws his bottom lip raw, inhales harshly through his nose and lets it out with a ‘ _whoosh_ ’ of air.

“But it's still a weapon, as much as they're trying to make it not one,” is what he finally comes up with. “I want- I'm trying to put all of that behind me, the fighting and the violence. I'm tired of it, Steve. Of hurting people. I really am.”

He turns to face Steve then, and Steve can see it on him, in his eyes, the lines of his face; he's exhausted, worn thin by this seventy year war he can't seem to end. It drags at his bones and weighs him down like chains on a weary dog with the fight all but drained right out of it. Steve has the sudden overwhelming urge to reach over and wrap Bucky up into his arms, keep him safe against the warm wall of his chest and never let him go again. He settles on reaching over and grasping Bucky's hand in his own instead. Bucky's gaze flicks down to where they're connected, lips parting, and then brings their hands up to rest atop his breastbone. He laces their fingers together, runs a thumb smooth and gentle over the back of Steve's hand. Steve almost weeps.

“What are you going to tell her?” Steve asks when he regains his composure, voice slightly choked.

Bucky shrugs, keeping his focus on their hands.

“I don't know,” he repeats. “I think…” he stops, licks his lips and starts again. “I think I'm going to accept it. But, and I'll tell her, it's only for when I need it. And I mean _really_ need it. Worst case scenario situations. Otherwise,” He lifts his head to look Steve in the eye, a small smirk gracing his lips. “I think I can get by just fine with just one.”

Steve snorts a soft laugh and smiles back at him.

“Two is just excessive anyway,” he teases, and it makes Bucky chuckle.

They quiet back down, and Steve turns his eyes back to the stars. They glimmer and glint above them, blinking in and out like the fireflies that buzz lazily to their sides and overhead. The whole jungle seems softer at night, less jagged edges and harsh lines. The hoots of monkeys are quieter, sleepy, and though the calls of birds are few they're yet no less melodic. The perfect lullaby; no wonder Bucky's been getting such good sleep, Steve thinks. He starting to feel a little drowsy himself.

He gives Bucky's hand a squeeze, and Bucky returns it with a soft little sigh.

“I'm proud of you,” Steve says later, after a pause.

Bucky's quiet, but when he responds it's with a small, almost tired, “Steve…”

“No, Bucky, really.” He looks back to Bucky, needs him to know this. “The world knocked you down time and time again, but you got back up anyway and carried on. You _survived_. That the toughest thing a person can do.”

Bucky doesn't speak for a good minute. He stares at Steve instead, something indecipherable flickering behind his eyes.

“I learned it from the best,” he finally responds, slow and soft.

Something pangs inside Steve heart, makes it skip a beat or two. He opens his mouth like he's going to say something and then doesn't, ending up staring at Bucky instead, eyes mapping the features of his face.

The air feels different around them, electric; there's a look on Bucky's face like he's feeling the same way, drunk off of Steve's very presence and his roaming gaze. They watch each other.

Bucky's tongue ghosts out over his lips and then all at once he's leaning over and those lips are touching Steve's, chaste and quick and yet no less sugar sweet for it.

It's a bit of a shock at first- Steve jolts a little and Bucky pulls back, not offended, just considering. Steve stares up at him with wide eyes. It's not that he doesn't want it, it's how much he _does_ , all consuming and brilliantly bright like a forest fire. He’d just never considered that, after all this time, the feeling would still be mutual.

He tips his head back a little, an invitation, and Bucky's lips curl into a slight grin as he bends over and places his lips back against Steve's. Steve makes a noise from deep in his chest and closes his eyes, pushing into it. His hand reaches up, finds purchase in Bucky's wild hair and give it a little tug, and Bucky whines high in his throat and gives Steve's bottom lip a nibble.

It's like clicking into place, two puzzle pieces fitting together after so much time apart. He's been waiting so goddamn long for this. They both have, Steve guesses, if the pleased little noises Bucky's making are any indication.

Bucky tilts his head to get a better angle and their noses bump together, making them both huff little laughs. The feeling of Bucky's lips smiling against his own floods Steve's chest with hot magma and only makes him smile more. Bucky grins, giggling, and starts peppering kisses all over Steve's cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose. Steve's shaking with silent laughter by the time Bucky returns back to his mouth, but Bucky's able to coax his lips back into moving against his own and soon enough those laughs are turned into hushed groans and soft, whispered sighs.

Bucky props himself up on his forearm and throws a leg across Steve's lap to straddle him, and Steve reaches down to rest his free hand on the jut of Bucky's hipbone. He rubs circles into Bucky's skin through the fabric of his _shuka_ with his thumb, pokes his tongue against Bucky's lips and curls it behind Bucky teeth when Bucky opens his mouth to taste him. Bucky hums, nips at his top lip one last time and pulls back.

Their eyes are dark as night when they open them to see each other, panting against each other's mouths. Bucky leans forward and brushes the tip of his nose against Steve's, and Steve grins.

“We should probably head inside,” Bucky whispers.

He's probably right. Steve doesn't have a single clue what time it is but he knows it's late, far too late to be rolling around in the grass like a couple of lovesick teenagers. He nods.

“Yeah, we should,” he says, and Bucky nods back.

They watch each other.

And then Bucky leans back in and they're kissing again, Bucky's hand cradling the side of his face, combing through his hair, while Steve's arm wraps itself around his waist and pulls his body flush against Steve's front.

It's not heavy or rushed, not like the first time. This now is an innocent exploration. A greeting, _I_ _missed_ _you_ \- relearning the grooves of each other's lips, the notches in their teeth. Bucky moves his head back and forth and pressed closed mouth kisses all along the line of Steve's lips, and Steve takes it all happily with a floaty feeling in chest. Like butterflies all caught up in his ribcage, wings thundering against his bones.

Finally, after what seems like a lifetime and no time at all, Bucky moves back. He laughs at himself, and his cheeks are the sweetest rosy red. Steve can't help himself but lean in and peck them.

“Alright,” Bucky says, chuckling. “Alright, we really need to go in now. I have to be up early- my turn to take the goats out.”

Steve sighs, big and heaving, and flops his head back against the ground.

“Yeah, okay,” he says after a beat. Bucky snickers at him and stands, reaching out a hand to pull him to his feet.

They amble their way back to Bucky's hut, bumping and shoving at each other and giggling like children the whole way. Bucky strips down to his underthings once they're inside and clambers under the thin covers on his pallet, watches as Steve pulls on an old ragged pair of sweatpants before he moves to join him. Bucky holds the blankets up and he climbs right in, letting Bucky spoon up to his back once he all settled and comfy. Steve lets out a big breath and nestles himself back against Bucky's broad chest, lets himself relax, truly _relax_ , and fall limp, non-tensed for the first time in what seem like- and probably is- decades.

Bucky shifts a little and makes himself comfortable, presses a feather-light kiss to the top of Steve's spine.

“Goodnight,” he sighs, sleep slurred. Steve opens his mouth to respond when Bucky tacks on a soft, “Love you.”

Steve freezes, mouth gaping open like a fish.

He- did he hear that correctly?

He almost asks Bucky to repeat himself; it's shocking at the same time it's not, his confession. Something Steve's been carrying around himself for as long as he can remember, locked up tight. Words on the tip of his tongue, too scared to say, lest he force Bucky into something he didn't want or worse, didn't remember.

Bucky's tense and coiled against Steve's back like he's waiting for a rejection and it almost makes Steve laugh, not at Bucky but at his own fear.

“I love you, too,” he parrots back finally. It's so freeing to say after all this time that he can't help but beam. He feels Bucky smiling as well against the skin of his back, and it makes the fluttery feeling in his chest return with a vengeance.

“‘Night,” he murmurs, and Bucky repeats it, already dropping off by the sound of his voice.

Steve makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat and pulls the sheets up a little higher, falling asleep just moments later with a smile on his lips and a warmth inside he hasn't felt in ages.

**Author's Note:**

> Uhlanga - rascal


End file.
